


hot for teacher

by chasemarty



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Teacher AU, also ur australian, bucky will show up eventually, hes a tutor, steve is your english teacher, v generic title
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-13 08:03:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14745024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasemarty/pseuds/chasemarty
Summary: You're in your final year of high school, stressed out of your mind when your english teacher resigns. Hopefully your hot american replacement will be less distracting than he seems...





	1. prologue

Walking into your English class on a Monday morning should have been the least exciting moment of your day. While your teacher adored you and was extremely intelligent, she struggled to express her knowledge in any way that was accessible to you, making your double period a tedious, painful chore. 

It didn’t help that your class relied so heavily on you. Saint James’ is a tiny, Catholic school in semi-rural Australia, two facts that resulted in small class sizes. And while your cohort was smart, impressively so, it was hard for them to retain any of the lengthy rambles and vague instructions that your teacher dished out freely. This resulted in you being the go-to for help on the essay or a 'quick' read through of latest journal piece. You had to be on top of your game all period long. 

So when you stroll in to class (later than should technically be allowed - you figure you deserve it considering how much extra energy you invest in this godforsaken class) you can’t help the gasp that escapes your lips - the scene in front of you is anything but boring. 

At the front of the room stands your teacher, eyes rimmed red and shaking hands. The girls in the front row are in a similar state, one whimpering softly into her hands while another consoles her. Even your best friend Peter, who has diligently saved your spot in the second row, looks shaken. 

But even more puzzling is the man. 

The first thing you notice is his expression; sheepish and empathetic, tinged with sadness. Piercing blue eyes, hidden behind thick-framed glasses, shoot up to you as you enter the door tentatively, trying to gauge the severity of the situation. 

Your teacher mutters your name softly, voice cracking. “I’m sorry to say that I’ll no longer be your English teacher.” The sentence is a struggle, punctuated by shallow breaths and sadness. “I’m… sick. And I need to take time to get better. I’m so sorry.” 

She continues for a few minutes, muttering words like ‘cancer’ and ‘aggressive’ and ‘sorry,’ but it’s the fear that taints her voice that sparks you into action. 

There’s a strange dynamic between the students and teachers in a small school; a bond that teeters the line of professionalism. This is especially true for the seniors - somewhere between the insurmountable pressure of university-entry exams, and the reality that your childhood is slipping quickly through your fingers, an attachment is formed between the adults who clock in to everyday to share their knowledge, lives and wisdom.

Which is why you find yourself striding forward to the front, eyes filling with tears as you wrap your arms around the shaking frame of your ex-english teacher, trying to convey a range of things in an action, as the words get stuck in your throat. 

And suddenly you’re not alone. The class has risen as one - even the snarky boy who sits behind you that you can't stand - and are wrapping themselves you and your retiring teacher. An impromptu group hug. A silent thank you, a goodbye. 

As the class peels away, wiping tears with jacket sleeves, the man steps forward. You’d forgotten him in the wave of emotion, and as he pats your old teacher on the back with a gentle hand you feel a sense of warmth rise up inside you; blossoming trust. His actions are not for show, which you can see in the sincerity of his actions. 

“As I was saying,” he begins, eyes darting toward you briefly. You don't bother to look apologetic. “My name is Mr Rogers, and I’m your new English teacher. I know that you must be feeling a lot of anxiety at this time, what with midyears approaching and the loss of your teacher.” A few eye rolls. An ‘obviously’ is muttered from behind you. He continues. “But I promise that I’m going to work hard to relieve any pressure that you’re currently feeling, and any that crops up into the future. My door is always open if you need anything.” 

You notice, belatedly, the slight drawl of his words, watch the way his mouth frames around the syllables as you try to place the accent. American, you realise, allowing your attention to return to the scene before you. 

The class falls into quiet chatter after that, as he ushers your old teacher to the door. There are faint calls of farewell, punctuated by ‘get well soons’ and ‘come visit’s that make you want to tear up again. The weight of the situation settles inside your stomach like a stone. You turn to your best friend, wiping away stray tears with the back of your hand. 

“What the fuck do we do now?” 

\----

Time passes but it feels warped, like a familiar sound pitched slightly down. Unnatural. Unnerving. 

Mr Rogers must sense this - feels the grief shifting inside the classroom with each passing second, rising and collapsing like the tide. So it rolls with it, dives beneath it and surfaces and dives again; pushing and pulling and plying. 

“I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know a whole lot about the Australian curriculum.” He must see the sense of panic flash across the student’s faces, because he immediately shifts into recovery mode. “Hey, hey, let me finish. I just moved here from America. I don't know how much you know about there school system but the school year runs differently back home. While you guys start in February, we start in September.

"But here is what I do know. Your exams are in November, which means we have 5 months to get acquainted, comfortable and you all at your best. I also know that passing English is compulsory for acceptance into university - and a pass in Australia is 50 and above.”

He takes a deep breath, eyebrows furrowing together. He looks a little frightened, pensive; perhaps scared that he is bitten off more than he can chew. But the expression passes, and a smile lights up his chiseled face.

“So it looks like all of us have a lot to learn.”

And god dammit, his enthusiasm is contagious.


	2. o n e

After introducing himself quickly, Mr Rogers ran through the notes your old teacher had left, explaining that he did (much to the classes chagrin) expect the journal piece to be handed in by the end of the week. “There is no point wasting the time you’ve already spent on it,” he points out, causing a few raised eyebrows. It was very common knowledge that the journal wasn’t finished until the night before it was due, at the earliest. 

Graciously, however, he allocated the rest of the period to working on the article. You stared down at the prompt, pen perched between your lips as you frowned in acute concentration

Challenge the dominant social view of current issue through the creative form

Peter was beside you, busying himself with doing absolutely anything other than the task at hand. He was grumbling to himself, attempting to create a pyramid out of his pens. 

“Bloody narratives,” he says, as the pens clatter in a heap for the tenth time. “I’m not gonna write a fucking narrative in an exam, am I?” 

You rolled your eyes heavily. This was a weekly conversation between the two of you, and it wasn’t worth breaching again. “Yes, Petey, I know. Now, should I do gay marriage or abortion?”

“Uhhh… Asylum seekers?” 

“Women’s autonomy.”

“Oh! You could talk about rape culture.”

“Or abuse in the Catholic church?”

“These are all interesting ideas,” a voice cuts in behind you, sounding sheepish. “But uh… maybe shelf that last one?” 

The sudden intrusion made you both jump, causing you to whip around in surprise. Standing above you was Mr Rogers, eyes glancing over the pair of you with a mix of amusement and concern. He leant over further, staring at the brainstorm plasted over the page of your workbook. “I don’t know how well that will go down here. You wouldn’t want me to get in trouble this early on, would you?”

You shrugged defensively. “It’s all over the news at the moment, what with the lawsuit that’s going on. That classifies as a social issue, doesn’t it?” You didn’t mean for your tone to sound so confrontational, aggressive. 

“It is, but I’m asking you to not rock the boat.”

“Isn’t that the point of English? Literature through the ages has always been about rocking the boat!”

It’s this moment when you glance up from your notebook and make eye contact with Mr Rogers. His eyes are boring into you; intense, but without anger. Assessing; analyzing. 

You swallow, feeling a shiver rise over your skin. You can’t look away; the gaze that you share feels tangible and oppressive; it’s physicality settling into your bones. 

But then he shrugs, glancing in the direction of a raised hand. “Pushing boundaries without reason is rebellion without a cause.” He pauses, adjusting his glasses and his gaze lingers over you again. “If you’re really going to challenge this, do whatever you want.”

He’s striding away when he pauses; turns. Looks at you again. “Good luck challenging the social view, though.” 

He says this with a smile. It chills you to the bone. 

He leaves, then; walking over to a struggling student across the room. You let out a breath you had no idea you were holding, turning to Peter with wide eyes. The whole encounter feeling like a nightmare - endless and without control. You feel stripped of your autonomy. 

“That was intense.”

“Tell me about it,” Pete says. “Look, I hate to prove him right but… Wanna tell me what the dominant view of child abuse is?”

“It’s bad.” You say, incredulously. And then it dawns on you - there isn’t anyway for you to morally question that view. “Oh, for fuck’s sake - he’s right.” 

From across the room, Mr Rogers’ lips curl into a smile. 

\---

The bell rings, it’s loud shrill met with a barrage of noise as everyone rushes to leave the classroom. You weren’t so quick to leave, however, knowing that the halls would be pretty busy for the next few minutes anyway. 

As you wait for Peter to attempt to file away his worksheets (“stuffing them in your book is not the same as having a functional filing system!”), you watch your new English teacher shuffle around his desk, collecting his scattered pens and pages. 

“P,” you hiss, leaning over the desk. “Maybe we should go introduce ourselves. Properly.” 

Peter laughs. “What, are you worried that you upset him? That you won’t be his favourite?” He stands, lifting his files from the desk. “Though, I wouldn’t mind being his teacher’s pet…” 

“That wink was obscene.” It brings a laugh to your lips regardless, bubbling over as you follow behind Peter. The teacher’s eyes shoot up as you approach, and he scratches his bare chin in poorly hidden confusion.

“We wanted to introduce ourselves properly.” You offer in explanation.

“I’m Peter Parker,” he reaches his hand out, and the tall blond grips is firmly. “My aunt and I actually moved from the US when I was little. Australia’s a pretty different place, hey?.”

“Definitely!” The older man laughs. “Where were you living? In America, I mean”

“New York.”

“No way!” Rogers’ eyes brighten with a smile. “I just moved from Brooklyn.”

You wonder about the likelihood of this occurring. Two guys growing up in the same city, only to move to the same town half way across the world? It seemed pretty insane to you. 

Brushing the thought away, you stepped forward, holding your hand out. “Well, anyway, I’m -”

“Late.” The stern timbre of his voice makes you retract your hand, feeling as if you’d just been slapped. 

“Excuse me?” 

“This morning. You were late to class. I hope that isn’t a habit that you intend to uphold while I’m around.” You feel your heart clench, mouth opening in shock over the impromptu scolding. “And I don’t really appreciate the way you spoke to me earlier. I may be new here, but I deserve respect.”

You feel your blood run through your veins, simultaneously iced and scalding. “Excuse me, sir,” you breathe out. “I’m sorry if you found offense to my tone. Personally, I found offense to the fact that you are willing to censor the voices of your students about the institutional abuse of children, because it might make the institution responsible for said abuse, uncomfortable!” 

Peter is on edge, discomfort clear in his wide eyes and tight shoulders.

“So if you’ll excuse me,” the words are meant to sound forceful, matter-of-fact. However, the shake in your voice, the feeling of what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do? overwhelms you;turning on your heel, you all but run from the classroom without another word. 

All you can feel is the rapid thrum of your heart in your ribcage, pounding and pounding and pounding. 

\---

“Oi, what the fuck was that?” Peter had finally caught up to you - you suspected that it had taken so long because he was throwing apology after apology at your new English teacher in your stead. “That was - Jesus, love, I’ve never seen you -” 

“He was being rude!” You say lamely, finally reaching your locker and opening it with ferocity, smiling in satisfaction as it slammed against the adjacent locker door. “I’m right and you know it. Sure, the idea was wrong for the prompt, I get that. But his reason? Shelfing it because it would get him in trouble? That’s insane!”

You fumble with your words for a moment, resting your forehead against the cool metal of your locker. “Silence… It’s the enemy of progress.” 

“Well, uh, that is something we can agree on.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

You turn, eyes meeting piercing blue.

Mr Rogers. 

“Would you mind accompanying me back to my office?”

\--- 

Walking behind your newest teacher was a daunting experience; your heart was pounding in your chest as you struggled to keep up. Admittedly, you’d never done anything this stupid. Yelling at a teacher, what the fuck were you thinking?! Most teachers were very fond of you, and all of them appreciated the respect you showed them in and outside the classroom. That’s how you’d always been, knowing that these people clocked in day after day just to give you an education.

Your nerves weren’t settled, especially knowing that Mr Rogers had no idea who you were; that he wasn’t aware that this was completely out of the ordinary for you. While the punishment he was going to serve out may be justified - even warranted - it didn’t feel all that fair. 

“Listen, I -” you began, increasing your pace so that you were at least in earshot of the new teacher. Damn him and his - muscular - long legs “I’m really, really sorry. I shouldn’t ha-”

“Hold on a second.” He cut you off, slowing down as you both reached his office. You watched in pensive silence as he unlocked his office door and ushered you inside. “Come inside first.”

The office was nearly completely bare - other than the desk, a few framed photos and a leather jacket resting on the back of his swivel chair - it was clear that he had just moved in. The rest of the - admittedly large - space was left empty. You wondered, absently, how he would fill the space.

He pulled the swivel chair out, positioning in front of you and ushering you to sit. Because there isn’t even a second chair, the blond leans against his desk, facing you. You watch him run a hand through his hair; frustrated, perhaps. Exhausted.

“I feel like - I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.” These are not the words you expect to come out of his mouth. You let them wash over you, allowing your eyebrows to furrow in confusion. 

“I… Yeah, I guess we did.” Lame. That was lame.

“The only class I’m taking this year is Year 12 English. Did you know that?” You shake your head. “I got to Australia about two weeks ago. Your teacher gave me everything that your class has done this year - essays, narratives, even those journals you all seem to loathe. I’ve even read through your upcoming reports - only for english, though.” He assures, responding to the the concern on your face.

“I’m good at my job, I’ll admit. But five months to learn everything about a cohort, even a small one like yours, and help them prepare for their future? It’s insane. It’s crazy. I don’t have a clue why I’m doing this.”

Another sigh. You realise that he isn’t really looking at you; he’s talking to himself, but with an audience. A monologue delivered on a stage. “My future here relies on your class. You’re all very good, but it’s still terrifying.”

He stops, then. As if he’s forgotten you’re in the room; forgotten you exist at all. Something inside you clenches; the warmth that you’d felt toward him earlier, in his interactions with the older teacher, reignites - damn your overactive empathy. 

“Hey,” you mumble, watching his eyes flick to yours. Removed from his reverie. “You don’t have to be… You don’t have to worry about us. We’re all really hard workers. We have plans for once we leave this place. You don’t need to be worried.”

“You’re all pretty impressive, definitely.” He agrees. “That Parker boy? He has an incredible talent for persuasive writing. Your whole class collectively have a great essay structure - I wish could say the same about other classes I’ve taught…

“But one name kept popping up. Absolutely brilliant analysis, amazing grasp of the english language, gorgeous prose. This student - I was shocked. Topping the class all the time. And the report comments - just glowing. How respectful they are, dedicated, empathetic. Intelligent.

“And then I met you, and you’re late to class, and you challenge me; try to undermine me. And then you snap at me and storm out before I can say anything. You’re like this hurricane - chaos and then nothing.”

You’re staring down at your hands, watching them shake. Waiting for the other shoe to fall. Waiting for his wrath. 

“I really, really am sorry,” you start, cringing at the way your voice wavers. “I didn’t - I just feel very strongly for things and -”

“Hey, hey,” he says conjolingingly. “I get it. Everything you said - well, most of what you said - is true. That’s not the point, really. I’ve read your work. I can see your passion. But I think, sometimes, we challenge norms - not to help those who were most affected - but to cause a stir. To be controversial.

“And I’m making no assumptions here, I’m not saying that you aren’t angry about all the injustices around. It’s just - sometimes it’s easier to develop that anger - the anger directed at the perpetrators - by starting with something personal. Something that affects you.” 

Your mind fumbles with his words. Would you have written about this abuse to honour those who were affected? You know the answer - you aren’t happy when you realise your motives are mostly to ruffle the feathers of your Catholic school. 

“So. Two things,” he watches your eyes rise from the ground, tentatively making eye contact. “First - I want your journal to be personal. Write about something you know. Something you feel. I think it’s the only thing missing in your writing.

“And second - discipline,” your breath hitches. “Don’t stress, what happened won’t go on any records. I’m not going to do that to you.” 

“Seriously?” He nods his affirmation. “Thank you, really.” 

“But,” here it is, the other shoe dropping. “I want you to help me. With class. Learning how your class learns.”

“In short, I want you to be a kind of… assistant.” 

What have you gotten yourself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come to the sad realisation that i dont know how to write anymore. tragic. still gonna keep going bc i hate myself but like. i think im just gonna use this fic to get over writers block. dont expect shakespeare xxx also thx for the comments sluts
> 
> ALSO ITS SO HARD TO WRITE LONG CHAPTERS

**Author's Note:**

> validate my teacher kink


End file.
